Needle in the Dark
by StarMellon
Summary: Normally she doesn't like getting her hands dirty. Rooster Teeth GTA!AU. Oneshot.


I haven't been writing much because of college... well, more like I haven't been _finishing_ anything because of college. Lots of writing but everything is half-finished.

So here's something I wrote a little while ago. A little different for me - it was to go with a friend of mine's Rooster Teeth GTA!AU. She hadn't spent a lot of time fleshing out Lindsay and I got inspired one day.

Enjoy!

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The dress is exquisite. A black that clings to her waist and hangs around and down her hips, draping in a manner she truly loves. The neckline hangs low and is encrusted with Swarovski crystals – not so much that it's tacky and looks like some horrible prom disaster, just enough to catch the light and bring attention to where she wants it most. Simple in its idea, yet complex and difficult to create. A work of art, truly.

Which is why her mood turns murderous when she notices flecks of blood on the hem.

"If you'd simply stopped to think for a moment, Mr. Peterson, you'd see what I'm asking of you is really quite simple." Her back was to the man currently bound and gagged to a chair. There's no way he can answer her from his current position, but she has enough skill and experience to know how this entire procedure is going to go. They've already been at this for twenty minutes, from the time he woke in that very position. He's been putting up an admirable fight thus far, considering is position and privilege (so much so that she allows herself a moment to wonder if perhaps he has some sort of masochistic tendencies, even fantasies, which isn't all that uncomment for men in positions of power. However, she only allows herself that single moment before moving on, as she really doesn't care), but he will break, as she knows he will, soon enough.

Lindsay looks further down the table where some of her more imaginative toys currently sit. She isn't planning on using him tonight, but the CEO currently tied to that old chair doesn't know that. She has no need to look at him to see his expression: beady eyes bulging from their sockets, a sheen of sweat bringing attention to his already receding hairline, his lips quivering as he attempts not to cry. Oh yes, he'll try to resist her, but she's found she's very persuasive when she sets her mind to something.

Normally she doesn't like getting her hands dirty. It reminds her far too much of days gone by. Men like William Peterson aren't normally worth so much of her attention. However, when she walked into his office three weeks ago under the guise of an aspiring business journalist in order to get a feel for what kind of threat would work best on him, she couldn't help but notice just how often his eyes drifted.

She picks up her favourite toy near the end of the table. It's cold and metal, designed by a contact of hers for the specific purpose of fracturing and dislocating fingers. Her favourite thing about it is just how intimidating it looks, which is really half the fun of using it. As Lindsay turns it over in her hands, she allows the light to catch and shine in Peterson's direction, and she hears an audible gulp, though the gag in his mouth forces him to remain silent.

Humming a little tune, she goes over her plans once again in her mind. He touched her ass that day, which was the main reason why she put all of this together when really the right threat at the right time would have been sufficient. In truth, she hasn't planned on any real torture, just a little intimidation, but it sure would be fun to hear the cracking of those damned fingers of his.

He's groaning now, and with her back to him her ruby lips break into a wide smile. She knows that sound, knows that it means and what he's trying to say. He's ahead of schedule and although she's glad this whole thing will be over sooner than expected, a small part of her is angry and craving to break something, to hear the snapping of his bones. That's always a careful line she walks when she delves into this type of work. There's the part of her that craves it, that's difficult to control. She's older now, though, and knows that she can keep a hold on things as long as she's given what she wants.

"Do you agree, then?" She says, strolling over to him. The toy is still in her hand, and in truth it's because she forgot to put it down, the shape and weight bringing back such delicious memories. The entire thing works to her advantage though, as the CEO nods furiously. He's sweating, has been sweating for almost a half-hour now, and is going to be quite dehydrated by the time they get him back to his office. The others will be taking care of the clean-up and delivery though; she has what she needs.

Lindsay leans into him with a hand on his shoulder. In any other situation the movement might be flirtatious, but she knows here it's perhaps even more threatening than her toy. "Was that really so hard, Bill?" The question is rhetorical, of course, and he's still gagged anyway. Her hand crawls along his neck and behind his head. The action causes him to flinch, and he's stiff as a board while she unties his gag. It's something she needs. She needs to hear him, to hear what he has to say in this very moment. Perhaps he will beg, or cry, or even pray. She's had men pray before, here at her mercy, and she has to admit that's her favourite reaction at all.

Instead of any of that, Peterson looks at her, taking great gulps of air through his now-free mouth, and asks, "who are you?"

She shouldn't be insulted that he doesn't recognize her from that day. There isn't a need for a mask when a wig and some contouring can work just as well. Even now she's taken extra precautions in her face, wearing her makeup in a different way, lowering her cheekbones and sharpening her nose. Her hair is up though she prefers it down, but that's all it takes. Peterson will remember this day for the rest of his life, though he does not remember when they first met. Every red-haired woman he sees will cause him flashbacks and panic attacks, and he'll probably throw out every single black dress his wife owns the moment he gets home tonight. All without her ever needing to truly cause him any physical harm.

That helps Lindsay's pride. Knowing that she'll be haunting him for the rest of his life. She smiles again, but it's as cold and hard as the metal in her hand, and showing far too many teeth to be considered attractive. He cowers in front of her at the sight, and she takes the opportunity to lean closer, her other hand moving to a secret compartment on her hip.

There are many things she would like to say there. Some lines sound like they were ripped straight from the cheesy, b-list movies that are her guilty pleasure, others are quotes from writers he's probably never heard of. Sometimes, though, there was no need to talk. And she was always partial to simple elegance over convoluted pretention.

The last thing he sees before Lindsay stabs him in the neck with the sedative-containing needle is her shark-like smile, and the last thing he hears before slipping into unconsciousness is her laugh, deep and cold and victorious. Her job here is finished; she's won.


End file.
